The Ruby was said to be the most precious of the twelve stones God created when he created all things and this "lord of gems" was placed on Aaron's neck by God's command. The Bible says that wisdom is "more precious than rubies," that is to say very valuable indeed.
Petronella Kozachenko peered out through the bars of her prison cell. She had just received more unfavorable news. Despite her multiple appeals the courts upheld the guilty conviction. Time was running out and the Governor was unsympathetic, there would be no stay of execution for her. She held on to her steely reserve that she would not die a cowardly death. If she were to be executed for a crime she did not commit, she would do so with all the dignity she could muster.
It was true that Petronella had lived a good and comfortable life in her native Soviet Georgia. Although her father Maximillian was a prominent and popular figure in the Georgian government, he was stoic and aloof at home, with eyes as cold as ice. Her most vivid memories of her father's presence in her life involved displays of his ugly temper. Both she and her mother Seraphina lived in terror of his unpredictable outbursts. She never knew when his temper would turn violent and he would ram his fists into the walls of their lavish home, or worse yet, into Seraphina or even Petronella herself. His adoring public never knew what kind of monster he bacame behind closed doors.
Petronella's life changed in the blink of an eye one day... The Georgian way of life and rule was collapsing and Maximillian felt it best to escape with his family, and more honestly, his life. He had become invloved with some rather shady dealings. Her mother whispering that they had to leave everything and to do so quickly awaked Petronella one night. She was puzzled as to why then her father instructed Seraphina to take the time to braid Petronella's hair before they left. Tears streamed down the face of her mother and her tender hands trembled as she deftly plaited Petronella's locks.
Passing through the border crossing was an experiment in sheer terror for the entire family. Her father had somehow secured falsified papers for them, so they would not be detained. Her mother's eyes continuously flit to Petronella, and especially her hair, as the guards conducted their perfunctory search. Only much later did she learn that her father had ordered her mother to braid rubies from the family vault into Petronella's exceptionally thick hair, in order to smuggle them out of the country. Seraphina was told that if she did not comply with his orders, she and her daughter would be left to the devices of the regieme that was to come. Did she need to be reminded what that might mean? He had risked her immediate and brutal execution, all for money, for greed.
When she finally learned this truth years later, long after settling in America, she took shears to her hair and immediately shorn her locks, never to grown her hair long again. She did, however, make certain to carefully braid her hair, place it in a box and deliver it to the desk of her father. She wanted to be certain that he knew that she was fully aware of his true heinous nature. When Maximillian found the neat little box, he flew into a rage and screamed curses at Petronella, telling her she didn't understand, didn't know what price he had to pay. His cries fell on deaf ears, as her heart had turned cold against her papa many years ago. He could tolerate many things, but he could not abide being ignored. So he decided to do what he knew would regain his daughter's attention; he drew back his hand and connected squarely with the soft and milky white flesh of her jaw.
That was the last thing she could recall before crumpling to the ground in a heap. When Petronella came to, she saw her father's body slumped over, blood trickling down from his temple; the drops having made splatters all over the papers strewn about his desk. Her mother was there too, muttering incoherently over and over again that she would never let her daughter be hurt again.
All of that made no difference now, now that she lay strapped to the table in the state penitentiary. The hypodermic slid slowly into her arm to start the IV that would carry the three drugs that would end her life. The last thing that flashed into her mind was a poem that she had learned and recited to her mother when she had first mastered English:
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
